Death Bed

by Leigh Russell

  He turned and pointed towards the stairs with an arm that trembled.

  ‘Leave it out, mate,’ the man said taking a step backwards.

  ‘Come on, Giles. He’s drunk.’ The woman pursed her lips.

  ‘A face,’ Peter repeated. ‘The devil’s face.’

  ‘He stinks,’ she added, wrinkling her nose.

  The two joggers moved quickly on. As they reached the stairs, the man looked over at the slope.

  ‘Bugger me,’ he said in surprise. ‘There is something there. Oh Jesus, what is that?’

  The woman was climbing the stairs. She looked over her shoulder and began to scream, over and over, while the man fumbled in his jacket, pulled out a mobile phone and dialled 999.

  ‘Police. There’s a dead body down by Islington Tunnel.’

  He paused, listening, then gave his name and waited to be connected to the police.

  ‘Yes, there’s a body, by the entrance to Islington Tunnel,’ he repeated.

  He turned to his companion who was still screaming.

  ‘Shut up will you, Elaine. I can’t hear a word.’

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and sat down with a bump on the step behind her, where she dropped her face into her hands.

  ‘Yes, it’s a dead body. I’m sure. Thank you.’

  He rang off and turned to the woman.

  ‘The police are on their way. They said to wait here and not touch anything.’

  She shuddered.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and sit on that bench until the police get here. It’s alright, Elaine, we’ll be able to leave soon.’

  He led her back down the steps, away from the stench, and along the path to the bench.

  ‘That tramp seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘He said it was the devil.’

  ‘Come on. Oh thank God,’ he added as they heard a siren approaching.

  ‘The police are here.’

  A minute later two uniformed officers came bounding down the stairs. Giles stood up and ran to meet them.

  ‘Was it you who called in to report a body, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Giles Brown?’

  ‘Yes. It’s right here.’

  Giles led the policeman to the foot of the stairs and pointed to where a dark face was clearly visible, lying on a rough pillow of weeds and bracken.

  ‘I see sir. And you found it?’

  ‘Yes. Well, there was a tramp.’

  He described how he and his companion had been jogging along the canal path when a filthy tramp had barged into them, gabbling about seeing the devil’s face.

  ‘The devil’s face, yes sir.’

  The constable was scribbling in his notebook.

  ‘He’d seen the body, you see.’

  The other police officer had been examining the body.

  ‘It looks like she jumped.’

  He peered up at the wall.

  ‘Only she missed the water and landed at the side of the path instead.’

  He studied her face, swollen and bruised from the impact.

  A few people had gathered on the canal path.

  ‘Poor cow.’

  ‘Drugs probably.’

  Attracted by the police car parked by the gates at the top of the stairs, a group of young teenagers were watching from above. Their voices floated down in snatches.

  ‘Has she snuffed it?’

  ‘Course she has, dickhead.’

  ‘Did she jump?’

  ‘Pushed, innit.’

  The police officer who had been checking the body turned to his companion.

  ‘It looks like a suicide but we should call out the Homicide Assessment Team. She’s been pretty badly bashed about. Come on, let’s clear the area,’ he went on loudly while his colleague summoned the rapid response team.

  30

  AROUND MIDNIGHT

  ‘Another body has been found this morning.’

  The assembled team were staring at the incident board in shocked silence.

  ‘One for us, it seems,’ the detective chief inspector continued, clearly doing his best to sound vigorous. ‘A young black woman was found on the canal path by Islington Tunnel, off Muriel Street.’

  ‘My God,’ a constable burst out.

  ‘Is it Donna Henry?’ someone else asked.

  ‘We’ve no identification yet. There was no purse or phone with the body, but it’s possible we’ve found Donna Henry. The assessment team has been out checking the scene and now we’re taking it over because it looks like Jessica Palmer’s killer’s been at it again. The victim was starved, beaten and chained by her wrists and ankles.’

  He paused.

  ‘And as you can see, her left leg has been amputated below the knee.’

  The detective chief inspector turned to the incident board where a photograph of the second victim was displayed, her face beaten, eyes swollen. Apart from the second victim’s missing lower limb, there wasn’t a great deal to distinguish her image from that of Jessica Palmer.

  ‘So it’s looking like a hate crime,’ Sam said.

  ‘Not necessarily, but the possibility increases our need to be cautious with the media. As if the case isn’t tricky enough anyway.’

  Reg Milton sighed.

  ‘I’ll speak to the press office straight away, before anything gets out, if it hasn’t already. We need to handle this very carefully. No one speaks to anyone outside this room about the investigation or the victims. Is everyone clear about that?’

  There was a murmur of consent.

  ‘The victim was fully dressed above the waist. We’re hoping more clothing and shoes might turn up as the area’s searched. Well, let’s get going.’

  Geraldine turned to Sam.

  ‘Let’s see what the post-mortem can tell us and then we’ll check out where the body was found.’

  Geraldine studied post-mortem reports closely, but she also liked to hear pathologists’ comments in person shortly after bodies had been examined. The reports were invariably considered and accurate, but there was always a possibility a thought might crop up in conversation that could suggest a line of enquiry she might not otherwise have considered. Following procedure sometimes wasn’t enough.

  ‘No stone unturned, eh?’ Sam responded when Geraldine explained her reason for going straight to the morgue after the briefing.

  ‘That’s what I say,’ Geraldine replied and was surprised when the sergeant laughed.

  ‘I know. You say it all the time actually.’

  Geraldine was pleased that Sam felt comfortable enough to tease her, and they drove to the morgue in companionable silence.

  ‘At least this one doesn’t smell so bad,’ Sam said with forced cheerfulness when she opened the door. Geraldine had the impression the sergeant was bracing herself to view the mutilated corpse.

  The pathologist looked up and nodded as they entered.

  ‘Another one for you,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who she is. Her prints and DNA have been sent off.’

  ‘When did she die?’ Geraldine asked.

  She tried to focus on the dead woman’s face, comparing her injuries to those sustained by Jessica Palmer, but her eyes were drawn to the crudely amputated leg.

  ‘Within the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Can’t you be more specific about the time of death? Stop hedging and make an educated guess.’

  Geraldine took a deep breath and forced herself to control her impatience. It wasn’t the pathologist’s fault if he couldn’t be more accurate, he was just doing his job.

  ‘It was probably some time last night, around midnight, give or take an hour either side.’

  They stood in silence for a few seconds staring at the dismembered body. The face was grotesque, eyes bloodshot, nose and cheeks swollen. They had a photograph of Donna Henry that her flatmate had given Geraldine, but the dead woman’s face was so misshapen it was impossible to be certain it was her. The skin on her arms and legs was scratched, her right hand a
nd wrist were a mess of bloody torn skin.

  ‘The victim was in her mid to late twenties,’ the pathologist resumed. ‘She had looked after herself, her hair had been well-cut, although you might not think it to look at her now, and her clothes look expensive, but she has recently been chained and starved, exactly like the last girl, and she was severely dehydrated.’

  He pointed to her face and arms as he went on.

  ‘Many of these injuries to her head, arms and upper body were caused while she was still alive, but her left leg was clumsily amputated at the knee after her death.’

  Sam looked troubled.

  ‘Are you sure she was dead? Only you said you couldn’t tell if Jessica Palmer was alive or dead when her finger was cut off, and if this was done while she was still alive - ’

  The pathologist was quick to reassure her.

  ‘The two are quite different and in this case, yes, I’m sure it was done post-mortem. There’s no evidence of bleeding, no sign of the blood vessels contracting and no sign of blood depletion in the body, all of which would be present if the amputation had been carried out while she was alive. The signs are not so clear cut – if you’ll pardon the pun - with the removal of the finger, where the blood vessels are much finer. This amputation wasn’t done with the rather delicate saw that was used to remove Jessica Palmer’s finger. A much larger heavy duty blade was used to sever the leg. There are other post-mortem injuries probably resulting from her fall, some skin damage and broken bones. The victim was already dead when she was dropped from a considerable height.’

  ‘What’s the cause of death?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘Similar to the last one, only in this case the injuries to her head certainly occurred after she died, probably in the fall, the nose broken and one cheek bone smashed. She was severely dehydrated and malnourished, and she was chained before she died.’

  He pointed to the dead woman’s wrists and ankles and glanced up at Geraldine.

  ‘Is this beginning to sound familiar?’

  ‘Was it the same chain as the one used on Jessica Palmer?’

  ‘Either that or one exactly like it.’

  Dr Mann touched the dead woman’s lips delicately with the tip of a finger.

  ‘But the other conclusive piece of evidence so far that we’re looking at the same killer is that this victim had two molars removed after she was dead, just like Jessica Palmer. The same two teeth. It’s possible the facial injuries were sustained during the extraction.’

  ‘That’s weird,’ Sam said.

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly an odd pattern,’ the pathologist agreed cheerfully. ‘It’s almost like a calling card, as though the killer wants us to know these women were killed by the same hand.’

  ‘Taunting us, you mean?’ Sam was indignant.

  ‘I don’t suppose he gave us a second’s thought when he was pulling out his victims’ teeth and sawing off body parts,’ Geraldine said. ‘There’s something else going on here, some other reason he wants them.’

  ‘As a souvenir, you mean?’ Sam said. ‘Then why doesn’t he just take their teeth? It all sounds damned odd, if you ask me.’

  Geraldine frowned.

  ‘The man who did this is damned odd.’

  ‘You said the teeth he extracted are the most conclusive evidence so far? Might there be more?’ Geraldine asked.

  The pathologist nodded.

  ‘I found traces of white fibres under the victim’s finger nails. I’ve sent them away for analysis but I’m guessing they match those we found on Jessica Palmer. It’s the same man alright.’

  ‘So he’s killed twice,’ Sam said.

  ‘Possibly more than twice,’ Geraldine answered quietly. ‘We don’t know whose blood was on the fibres found under Jessica Palmer’s nails. Someone else’s blood had stained those sheets before she was there. This girl here could be the killer’s third victim, or for all we know there could have been more before that - and others to come if we don’t find this man and stop him.’

  ‘That’s certainly a concern,’ the pathologist agreed.

  ‘This woman was killed around midnight,’ Sam said.

  Geraldine nodded. The same thought had occurred to her.

  ‘It was around half past ten when Stafford left us,’ Sam continued.

  ‘He’d have had to work quickly.’

  ‘But it’s possible,’ Sam insisted. ‘And he’d certainly be strong enough to do - that.’

  She nodded at the victim’s left leg before turning to the pathologist.

  ‘You said she was killed around midnight, give or take an hour or two either side?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well that gives us until one, and he left the station at ten-thirty. That would give him nearly three hours, Geraldine, easily enough time to kill her and drive the body here. You don’t think we could have panicked him into doing it? Or perhaps there are two of them and his partner killed her and he disposed of the body once he got back, and our questions had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘No, I think this man works alone. They usually do. But finding him is the extent of our responsibility. Whatever he chooses to do, it’s not down to us,’ Geraldine said firmly. ‘Even if he felt provoked by our questioning, we’re not to blame for his actions.’

  ‘Or hers,’ the pathologist added.

  Sam looked surprised.

  ‘Surely you don’t think this could have been done by a woman?’

  ‘Why not?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘A woman could be strong enough to overpower these girls,’ the pathologist agreed.

  ‘And would be more likely to take them unawares,’ Geraldine added.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Sam didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Still, the likelihood is we’re looking for a man, and Robert Stafford’s not out of the frame yet,’ Geraldine said. ‘But whoever it is, we have to find this killer before he – or she - kills again.’

  Geraldine glanced at the dead woman and shivered with a sense of déjà vu.

  31

  CONCEALED FROM EVERY ANGLE

  The entrance to Islington Tunnel wasn’t far from the morgue and Sam and Geraldine drove straight there. Neither of them spoke in the car, each lost in her own vision of a woman lying dead on a cold steel table.

  ‘We don’t even know it’s definitely Donna Henry yet,’ Sam muttered as they drew up in Muriel Street and parked by the gate that led down to the canal.

  On the opposite side of the road was a residential estate, a care home for the elderly beside it on the corner. In front of them, to the left of the gate, they saw a patio with bushes in wooden planters and a sign ‘Please do not steal from this community garden.’ Geraldine glanced around the quiet road with fleeting anxiety. It wasn’t far from her own flat. They walked through the gate, between high black railings, onto a tarmac walkway which forked immediately. They followed the left hand path down shallow steps concealed beneath the branches of a tree to a spiral staircase with metal railings, which led to a circular wooden platform constructed around a tree trunk. Under other circumstances it would have been an attractive, leafy garden. To the left of the staircase rose the high brick wall of Islington Tunnel where the canal passed under the road, and a steep weedy slope running down to the water below, now mostly concealed beneath a forensic tent squashed into the narrow space between the stairs and the wall.

  ‘That’s where she was found,’ a constable told them. ‘Lying on the grass. She must have been chucked over the railing from the stairs. It would only have taken a moment to park a car outside the gate, carry the body down to the top of the spiral staircase and throw her over. He wouldn’t even have needed to take her down to the platform.’

  ‘And there’d be no one here at night,’ Sam added.

  Geraldine looked around. To her left the high wall towered over them, ahead and to her right thick foliage obstructed her view of the canal, and the path behind was similarly hidden. The stairs were concealed from every ang
le.

  ‘None of this is overlooked,’ she added, speaking to herself as much as to Sam. ‘This place was carefully selected by someone who knows the area well. He must live around here somewhere.’

  Just saying it gave her a sense of reassurance that they were closing in on this faceless killer. Only she knew that wasn’t true.

  She turned and looked down at the spot where the body had been found. Stout nettles, dock leaves, ivy and other undergrowth covered the ground. A rotting log lay nearby and a few grey rocks were scattered around.

  ‘There was a smear of blood on one of the rocks,’ a scene of crime officer told them.

  ‘And when the medical officer examined the body – well, have you seen it?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve just come from the morgue.’

  ‘Were there any fingerprints on the railing? Have you checked along the top where he would have been standing?’ Sam asked.

  The officer shook his head.

  ‘We found a thread from the dead girl’s jumper caught in the wire at the top of the stair rail, which confirms where she was thrown over. We’ve taken casts of all the shoe prints and fingerprints we could find up there, but there are too many really, all overlaid and indistinguishable. I can’t imagine we’ll get anything useful out of that lot.’

  Geraldine looked round.

  ‘Have the people in the boat on the opposite bank been questioned? And the flats across the canal?’

  ‘Yes. The first officers on the scene set that going,’ the constable told her. ‘The boat people all said they’d slept through the night and didn’t see or hear anything. There were a load of muddy footprints on the path, and trampling around in the mud. And it gets worse.’

  The scene of crime officer nodded at the constable.

  ‘We had to chase some youngsters off the slope here,’ the constable said. ‘They were looking for souvenirs, sliding all over the mud. They were only kids.’

  It was hopeless. Everyone in the flats across the canal would be questioned but the staircase was hidden by trees. Geraldine stared up at the cracked brick wall, ivy growing across it, and sniffed in the damp musty smell of the canal, its water flowing black and silent below them.